Here is a little boy drawing with charcoal upon the white walls of his mother’s kitchen, while a precious old grandmother sits watching the young artist. Taking him in her arms, she said, “Do not paint to rub out, paint for eternity.” Commonplace words uttered in a commonplace home by a very commonplace old lady.
Here is a bright-eyed little boy kneeling at his mother’s side to say his prayers. Having finished his petitions, the Christian mother says, encouragingly, as she strokes his head, “Only be good, my precious boy, and God will use you to help the thousands.”
We have seen these five persons putting ordinary thoughts in what seem to be ordinary brains. These five children felt no enraptured thrill, the ones who sowed the thoughts did not remember the day. But all the universe of spiritual power knew about the planting, and consequently the seeds grew. Watch the little girl among the forests of Domremy, leaning against the trees, buried in thought, and listening to the voices that ever speak of redeeming France. Watch the little girl bending over her Greek book, day after day, finding the key that unlocks the beauty of Homer and Thucydides. Watch the little lad sitting past the midnight hour, his long curls falling in rich folds about his face as he bends over the harpsichord awakening the slumbering strings. Watch the little lad gathering clays of various colors and grinding them into paint, which shall, at the touch of his brush, awaken angels upon the canvas. Watch the little lad who learned to pray at his mother’s knee, gathering the students of Oxford about him to spend the evening hour in prayer. God has not forgotten the good thoughts sown in the days gone by, and all the spiritual forces of the heavens are working for their most complete development. Soon the little lass of Domremy, obedient to the call of the voices, mounts her charger and compels King Charles, the invader, to flee and give back the government of France to her people. Soon the little girl who studied so diligently to learn Greek will become Mrs. Elizabeth Browning, to make the centuries happy with the music of her poems. Soon the little lad at the harpsichord will become the mighty Mozart, whose music lingers like the sweet fragrance of dew-wet flowers. Soon will the little boy, drawing with charcoal, begin to paint for eternity, and the “Angelus” and “The Man with a Hoe” begin their deathless career, as a tribute to toil, and an eternal protest against oppression. Soon the boy of Epworth and the youth of Oxford will become John Wesley, the leader of the great revival which swept England at a critical period and directed her on the right track.
No one can understand the mystery of the growing seed, or the greater mystery of the growing thought, but each individual can have such a love for childhood and its future that he will guard with jealous care each word that leaves his lip, determined that in the sowing nothing but good seed shall find lodgment in any heart. An evil thought planted in a child’s mind grows into a ruined life and blasted character. Let not even the idle word be an evil one for fear of the harvest. What an incentive to become good husbandmen planting righteous thoughts in the minds of childhood, looking forward to harvests that shall never end!
XXIV.
The Rosary of Tears
God meant man to be happy. The sweetest music of this world is clear, ringing laughter. Beside its resonance the majestic voice of the cataract, the rolling melody of dashing billows, the gurgling ripple of the sun-kissed streams, the thrilling throb of the wild bird’s song, the merry chirp of the cheerful cricket, the lyric of the wind-tossed leaves are as nothing. Better one sudden, spontaneous outburst of childish laughter than all the symphonies and oratorios of the long centuries. Nothing can equal it. It comes with the spontaneity of a geyser, rolls out upon the atmosphere like a volley of salutes, thrills like martial music, its quick vibrations making the sunbeams tinkle like silver bells. It is contagious, causing the facial muscles of our friends to relax and begin to run and leap into the radiant smiles, their vocal cords to burst into song, and the whole world becomes a better and happier place for all mankind.
As the sunshine makes battle with shadows, so men and women should wage warfare with everything that depresses. Children have a right to laugh, and youth has a right to rejoice in the morning light of life that floods the pathway with the bright and brilliant colorings of hope. We must not be too exacting with others, neither must we endeavor to abnormally repress our own feelings. There is a restraint that is not culture and a self-control that is not temperance. Some people would be far more honest in their dealings, and have better rating in their own community, if they did not exercise such an exacting self-control over their deep feelings of honesty, justice, and brotherly love. There is a boundless strength in emotion, therefore laughter and happiness are absolutely essential. Let happy hours be golden beads, which, strung upon the silken cord of memory, will become a rosary with which to count our prayers.
Laughter is essential, because of its relationship to tears. In the truest sense pure tears and pure laughter are one. It requires a raindrop to reveal the hidden beauties of the sunbeam. Beholding the rainbow spreading its many-colored folds over the dark shoulders of the storm cloud, we utter exclamations of gladsome surprise. How marvelously beautiful it is! But every sunbeam would be a rainbow if only it had its raindrop through which to pass. It requires vapor to reveal the hidden depths and treasures of the sunbeam. Tears are to laughter what raindrops are to sunshine. They reveal the deeper meaning of our joys. Without them we should never appreciate or understand the brighter moments. When we count each hour of happiness as a golden bead, we must consider each teardrop as a crystal or polished diamond, to gleam upon the rosary of the heart.
Sincerely pity the man who has lost the art of shedding tears, for he has, through self-control, restricted his emotions, so as to exclude life’s best experiences. Without a tear-moistened eye one cannot clearly comprehend the brightness of the sky, the majesty of the sea, the commanding splendor of the mountains, or the wealth of gold that lies buried in every human heart. Without tears one can never experience the rapturous joy of truest love or holiest patriotism. The greatness of the soul is measured by the depth of its emotions, and the extent of influence is determined by the readiness with which one permits the deep emotions to shed their glory.